Every year around this time, we are inundated with commercials reminding us that a diamond is forever and if you don’t go to Jared you’re a shit-head. These commercials have pissed me off for years and they’re always the same. Some guy surprises his special gal with a diamond and she immediately starts to kiss him, or drag him into the bedroom. The underlying premise is simple:
“That special woman in your life is a dirty fucking whore and we both know it. So buy this ridiculous piece of jewelry… it’s time to pay the pimp.”
I find it insulting to men and women… something universally insulting that neither gender seems to mind. Men grudgingly fork over ten percent of their income for the latest trend in diamond jewelry, and women turn into a drunk cheerleaders at their first frat party at the sight of that little box.
This year’s new thing is the “Journey Pendant”. This is a little “S” shaped diamond string with the stones becoming increasingly large as they trail downward. The romantic in me sees the implication here--the diamonds grow larger as our love grows stronger on this journey we are taking together. However, the cynic in me says that, as this chick gets older and uglier, she costs more to fuck.
That’s not really the journey I had in mind. You want to take a journey? How about you take that money you would have spent on that rock and fly her to South Africa or some other conflict-ridden diamond producing country where the people are exploited and the rich benefactors funnel millions of dollars into perpetuating the corruption and poverty in order to better line their pockets with this blood money... your money. These diamond cartels are so corrupt and monopolistic they make Microsoft look like a group of nuns going door-to-door selling Girl Scout cookies to raise money for the Red Cross.
The people selling this line of crap are scum. I can’t think of anything else to describe them. They rely on the stereotype of a world where men are all thick-headed, incompetent, henpecked, hapless losers trapped in a marriage with a shrill, overbearing, frigid harpy of a wife who’s turned into a common prostitute.
“Every kiss begins with Kay.”
Fuck you.Oh, and Happy Holidays.
With the release of the Mitchell Report yesterday detailing the sad state of Major League Baseball, it got me thinking about our collective consciousness and what we think of as “sad”. I’ve been trying to think of the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. The demise of baseball is not one of them. Frankly, I could care less. No, I'm looking for another kind of sad. Not tragic-sad like Darfur, but more along the lines of “pathetic-sad”. Like an empty fish tank. That’s kind of sad. Watching an old lady miss her bus with an armful of cheap Christmas presents she bought at the Walgreens for her grandkids on a cold winter day. Also sad. But, like most things, I found what I was looking for in a bar.
It’s really sad when you see a couple of “dudes” who are just horrible and being misogynists. I mean, they try. They sit at the bar and make inappropriate jokes that aren’t funny—which is really the first step. But they never seem to be able to close the deal. It just comes across as vulgar and a little more than just a little pathetic. Listen guys if you are going to embark on a public activity that precludes you from getting laid, you may as well do it correctly. I guess it’s not just misogyny, really it could be any form of socially unacceptable behavior. If you’re going to do it… commit to it. If you’re going to go on a tirade about women, do it with zeal. Otherwise it just makes you look… gay.
So here are some tips on how to make your misanthropic objective of societal alienation a little more effective.
Don’t refer to women as “chicks” or “bitches”, you should use the words “women” and “females”. “Woman”, especially when referring to a man, has the effect of taking the strength out of their gender by co-opting it as a derogatory term. “Females” is particularly effective at de-humanizing women… referring to them in much the same way one would a badger or some other lower order mammal.
Skip the “sexist” jokes. Humor is designed to be a form of social expression. You’re goal here is to ostracize yourself from society and isolate yourself from the rest of the people around you, not engage in behavior that simply re-enforces social interaction. You can be funny, but “joke-telling” is not the way to go. There is a rich landscape of opportunity here, female drivers, women in business… Oprah. Take advantage of it. Pass around a petition to end "women's suffrage" and see how many 22 year old drunk girls you can get to sign it. Now that's funny.
You can judge the effectiveness of your commentary by how women react to it. Over-the-top outrage from a woman means you have missed the mark. They are simply responding to your stupidity with an exaggerated sense of indignation, but she will still engage you in debate. Your goal is to make your typical woman turn red, squint her eyes and simply walk away from you in utter frustration and disgust. She should be so offended that she is unable to even speak. Now you’re on track.
Expand on your observations. Just making a little quip here or there is insufficient… unless you can string together about 5 minutes worth of really good ones. No, you should tell a story with the bottled-up hate you have inside. It’s a resource, and you should learn to tap it for all it’s worth. Like a Sith Lord you need to embrace that anger and give in to the hate for it makes you powerful.
Finally, commit to your antisocial behavior. Don’t back-pedal and start sounding reasonable just because you think you have a chance to get laid. Never alter your behavior, regardless of how hot she may be. Remember, no matter how hot she is, there's some dude who is tired of fucking her.*
*Example of a quip that one should never use.
Michael Vick, the perpetually stupid Atlanta Falcons quarterback, was sentenced to 23 months in jail for financing an illegal dog fighting ring. The actual crime he was convicted of was “one count of interstate conspiracy to sponsor dog fighting”. I would like to say that I find the idea of dog fighting to be personally offensive. But, I’ve never been to a dog fight. Maybe I’d like it. Regardless I am not going to stand up and defend this guy but that’s a long time to be in jail for funding an organization that holds dog fights and for the untimely extermination of eight quadrupeds. From what I understand jail really, really sucks. I’m going to take some heat for this but, I’m going to go out on a limb here and call this absurd. These are, after all, dogs we are talking about.
I know we all like dogs. They’re cute and loyal and generally provide unconditional love to their owners. They catch Frisbees and protect our property. In some cultures, they’re considered delicious. I’ve owned two dogs and I loved them both. The operative word here being, owned. Those animals were property, my property. I would never advocate that a human being abuse a dog, or any other animal for that matter, but are we really saying that these pieces of property are to be held in such high esteem that we see fit to sentence a fellow human being to two years in prison over how they are treated? I did a little background research on this, and jail time for child abuse can run less. In other words, Vick may have been better off if he had left a toddler strapped into a car seat and locked in his car on a hot summer day. Something seems… off here.
I guess the lesson we can all take from this is that famous, black football players should stick to killing people.
Today I went to my local convenience store. I purchased a package of breath mints and a beverage. My total was $4.01. I had exactly $4.00 in cash… and two twenties.
The clerk said: “That’s $4.01”.
I said: “How about $4.00?”
She said: “How About $4.01?”
Okay, I understand she’s following corporate policy. I mean, given 100,000 customers a day and if that happens 10 times a day, over a year that’s $3,600 a year. Someone should check my math on that. Regardless, it adds up. But here’s my problem. She then asked if I wanted a bag. A bag? I have a drink in my hand and some mints in my pocket. What the hell do I need a bag for? How can you be so stingy about that penny, but so free with that plastic bag?
Well, I took the bag and she started to put my drink in it. But I told her not to bother. “Just hand me the bag.” She did, and I said: “Do you think this cost more than a penny? I know it costs more than a penny to put this bag in the garbage can and haul it to a land fill and deal with it for the next 10,000 years.” She, rightly so, had no response. I threw the bag in the garbage right next the counter and left the store.
Does this change anything? No.
All I did was add another plastic bag to the garbage. But some day, that clerk is going to work somewhere else. And she will remember that moment--either to help save the environment or grow some business somewhere at the expense of the environment.
Either way, mission accomplished.
I have reached the age where I really no longer go to night clubs. There being a difference between a bar and a night club. A night club is not so much a club as it is a festival of hopeful bitterness. People dance there. The Eagles got it right: “Some dance to remember. Some dance to forget.” But mostly, I think people dance to be noticed. Like a desperate cry for attention. They move onto that dance floor with a feigned sense of exuberance like a man spending his last dollar on a lotto ticket. This time he’ll win and he wants everyone to know it.
It goes without saying that men and women have different motives for dancing. Women seem to have a biological need for it. As Dane Cook put it, they see a need to “Dance it out”. Men on the other hand see a pile of handbags and shoes sitting on the floor surrounded by a circle of intoxicated, gyrating women. In other words, they see an opportunity. The mating ritual resulting from the co-mingling of so much estrogen and testosterone combined with the effects of a few Alabama Slammers would make a National Geographic photographer blush with embarrassment. It’s an orgy of self indulgent posturing designed to both attract and repel members of the opposite sex.
I can deal with that.
But what I cannot deal with is the senseless, lemming-like rush to the dance floor every time “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor starts playing. The shrill shrieks echo throughout the already loud club: “Oh my God! This is MY song! We HAVE to go dance!” It’s not just that song actually. It’s really any song whose primary subject matter is overcoming the obstacles inherent in being female. “Respect” by Aretha Franklin is another one. When these songs play, every woman in the room makes a mad, desperate dash to the dance floor in order to purge years of oppression through a cathartic dance of self-empowerment and Oprah-inspired sisterhood.
Oh give me a God Damned break.
Listen ladies, I hate to burst your bubble here, but these songs were performed by black women in the 60’s and 70’s. These are women who grew up in the 40’s and 50’s in a racially divided, gender-biased America that is (thankfully) now a relic. They knew a thing or two about "survival" and "respect". I understand that when your boyfriend makes fun of you for not being able to parallel park your SUV (that your daddy bought for you) it's traumatic. But it's really not the same thing.
The only thing marginally more pathetic than watching this herd of female self delusion shuffling onto the dance floor at the opening bars of these songs, is the men who follow them there. As if to say. “I understand your pain. I too am in touch with my feminine side. Allow me to show you that I accept and respect you for the strong, unique woman you are by grinding by penis against the small of your back.”There's the "Respect" you've been longing for.
As we go through life, people enter and exit through the revolving door of acquaintance and friendship. In one’s professional life there are relationships that seem so important and so enduring that imagining a time when you are not in daily contact with that person seems absurd. But sure enough, a couple of weeks at a new job and you can’t seem to remember their last name. I have always found the deconstruction of such relationships to be sad.
When you run into these people on the street some years later, you both lie and say you’ll keep in touch and maybe get together for lunch some time. You dutifully exchange numbers again and part company feeling guilty for the lie. It’s the worst kind of lie because both parties want to believe it, but both know it isn’t true. This once important part of your life will fade into obscurity, filed away in the rolodex of things lost.
I hate that.
There are, of course, some relationships that don’t lose their luster, or at least you don’t wish them to. I have a list of such people… a list of people that I simply refuse to forget. These are people for whom, even after years of not speaking, I would do just about anything. But there are rules to the list:
The New Jersey Rule: If this person called you at 3am from a jail in New Jersey (or some other far off land of the damned), you would drop what your doing, take time off work and go bail them out.
The Assumption of Respect Clause: It is important to only add those people to your list who would not take advantage of your unconditional generosity. In other words, you can assume that they would not be calling you from New Jersey unless they have exhausted all other reasonable options.
The Reciprocity Rule: You must assume that this person would do the same for you. Although you can’t know for sure… confidence should be high.
The Longevity Rule: You really shouldn’t add people to your list that you have known for less than 10 years. There are exceptions, but they are rare.
The Most Important Rule: Be careful about who you add to your list, for though you may add to the list… you may not subtract. Once on the list, they are on it for the duration.
It’s that last one that grabs one by the throat and forces the truth to the surface. You have to live with this decision for the rest of your life… or theirs, or whichever ends first. You had better be sure. Really really sure.
In my 36 years of living I have managed to build my list to what I feel is a sizable number. You know who you are… all eight of you.
Every year around this time, we are inundated with commercials reminding us that a diamond is forever and if you don’t go to Jared you’re a shit-head. These commercials have pissed me off for years and they’re always the same. Some guy surprises his special gal with a diamond and she immediately starts to kiss him, or drag him into the bedroom. The underlying premise is simple:
